lack of inspiration...

dry...

dry
it's like a parched bowl
or scorched lips
there's no way to explain it

empty
like a spent bottle
whisky or wine
there's no more drink in it

barren
like a cursed womb
no children
no passing on of blood

dead
like my unliving mind
bereft of thoughts
the end of my creation

Meh.

voice...

No way to show it makes sense. It doesn't. When they start to not give a fuck, it unravels. Every last strand.

Should have picked up the challenge. Maybe then you would have been more the sum of your words. As it is, you can't count too well. To be limited to such algebraic equations as your definition, you're screwed beyond reason. Potatoes have a higher chance of seeing with their eyes than you do.

Shallow obsessions. You are hardly as popular as you THOUGHT you were. And then again, you fall back into the pattern. Revelations are of no use to someone who forgets them even before they're over. Pathetic.

You think you can write? You can't. Maybe that's why you keep trying. People want what they cannot have. And you can't have anything. So you want everything.

In a way, she was the only one who could love you. Only one who would. And you knew that. Maybe that's why you pushed her away. It was fun for awhile, but you knew that you weren't getting her anywhere. And you've become so much more fucked than you currently are.

Sometimes, you talk too freely. They like it, and that's why you do it. Attention seeking bastard you are. And they soak it all in, revelling in your pathetic inaptitude. You know that too, but the hopelessness wants it more than the pride despises it.

Eat your words. Every last one. They taste bad, like day old puke, or like her cooking, but that's not the point. You eat what you deserve, what you can afford. And as is, you're quite pathetic. But isn't everyone.

Sometimes you'd rather you were entirely gay. Or straight. Straddling the lines rather than a person is a lot more fucked up than it sounds. You see a cute guy, you go wow. You see a hot chick, you go wow. You can't really make up your mind, can you?

It seems that you live a rather perfect life. Like, who wouldn't want your spectacular grades and everything? You don't have to work for what you have. And truth be told, you aren't as fugly as you think you are. In an earthy sort of way, you're quite charming actually. Your personality, at least the one you project, seems to be amusing enough. At least that gives you a more or less constant crowd.

Again, you know that they're mocking you. People are sadistic. She'd agree, you suppose. Two outcasts, you are. And in the end, it's really not that lonely. Everyone does not fit in, or rather, no one does.

You know, you probably are only looking for physical intimacy because you want to feel wanted. Which you really aren't you know. And no amount of humping, grunting, screwing, shagging, fucking, is going to change that. If anything, that tiny piece of flesh serves as probably the only pleasure source that you ever get.

Your family is a weird one. They don't really give a fuck about you, and then again they care so much it smothers. You could die from the lack of attention, and you could drown in it. The worst part is they got it in the wrong order.

She would likely miss you. She's probably suffered a lot on your account. And now she's suffering more. You should have known better than to get involved with emotional females. Few things good come out of such things. But stupidity and assheadedness are sort of your trademarks.

In a way, you were better at 15 than you are now at 18. Even though you were uglier, stupider, more oblivious. Perhaps, the few improvements you had only served to downgrade further the shit that you were. Sordidly, you have no choice but to continue this lie.

Maybe. And maybe not.

I look away from the mirror. The dark voice stops. I turn to gaze out the 34th story window of my apartment. The wind is so bracing. And so I do the same for myself.

With a sigh, I jump.

finally...

It wasn't the first time he found himself alone. This would be the 12th time this past year. Or 27th in the span of his short 17 year lifetime.

She had been so perfect. There wasn't anything he could want to add or remove from her immaculate being. Just the right height, the right shape, and that sweet face that was absolutely breathtakingly, well, perfect. There were no words to do her justice. That much he was certain of.

Then again, all 27 were perfect. And all left him.

Looking in the mirror with his sunken bloodshot eyes, he could see no real reason why they would. Sure, he was a bit on the chubby side, but that gave him the reassuring feel of a man, and as all of them had said, made him huggable. He was by no means too short, being a healthy 5'11". No one could say he was ugly, he was handsome and adorable on so many levels. His hair was definitely a selling point, rich and luxurious, long-ish, but hardly unkempt. No, there wasn't any significant flaw in him, besides the bloodshot eyes. But one had to expect that from not sleeping for a week.

Was it his personality? It could be hardly that. He was definitely attentive, but he understood personal space. He wasn't dull, that he was most certain of, neither was he too self absorbed. He was chatty, yes, but he hardly ever spoke out of place. And he got along well with everyone, even her girlfriends had no complaint about him. The life of the party, and the ever attentive mate he was, difficult as it may seem, he kept them both well.

He was definitely self sufficient. His parents died when he was 14, and he refused to go to an orphanage, so his cousin adopted him, legally, anyway, and he had been living off the money provided for in his parents' will since then, supplementing with odd jobs here and there. He was a good cook; he earned some of his keep cooking for his friends, and was no slouch at housekeeping. He definitely put down the seat of the toilet after use, and there were no stray undies around the small apartment he lived in. Not too athletic, true, but he always picked up a challenge with enthusiasm. Materialistically sound, there was no blame enough for them to leave him.

He was a good kisser, and great in bed. By all accounts, at least.

So what was it?

"I should be used to this by now," Juin silently mused to himself, his eyes lit up by a dark inner fire, his lips in a cold smirk. Grabbing his leather jacket, he walked out the door.

The park was dark and unlit. As usual. Vandals ran the place during the day, but rumours of ghosts kept people away at night. People except him of course. And someone else tonight, it seems.

The shadowy frame of a well built man appeared in the distance. The pale glow of the almost full moon lit the sharp features of an elvish-looking fellow; his hair was a long platinum fall stopping short of the middle of his back, a crisp looking nose and wide forehead. The lips were thin, almost a line, the eyes covered in the shadow of the long fringe. His shoulders were narrow, and sleek arms. His tight fitting mesh shirt betrayed the hint of ribs, supported by strong, if smallish, abdominals. The gauzy mesh disappeared beneath a pair of rugged black jeans. On what seemed to be size 9 feet, a pair of Japanese sandals hung on.

Jin continued to sit on a particularly preserved bench, swinging his keychain around his index finger in silent circles. The light reflecting off the keys flashed repeatedly into his black eyes. The stranger sat down next to him, and pulled out a well chewed pencil. He placed the pencil in his mouth and continue what was likely an unfinished task.

Jin said nothing, nor even turned towards the stranger. Rather, he began sobbing silently.

"Breakups are hard," a light but definitely male voice said. Juin lifted a half quizzical, half depressed look to his left. The stranger gazed up, pencil still in his mouth. The moon reflected off the pale face.

"Well, 12th in a year should have sort of inoculated me," the depressed boy replied, in a half sorrowful, half matter-of-factly voice.

The stranger turned to face Juin.

"I suppose you're wondering why."

Juin sighed, and began a description of every girl that had ever been with him.

"Sounds perfect."

"Each time. Sigh..."

"Then maybe it's a sign..."

"Of what? My inability to hold on to a girl?"

"Perfection," said the sharp featured man, "is not attainable."

"They were perfect. Each time."

"Precisely."

Juin got up, frustrated.

"Then what would you have me do? Every girl that has ever been with me was perfect!"

"Perhaps girls aren't meant for you. They feel a lot more than they know, and they probably realise that you're just not meant for them either. They probably realise that they can't pleasure you as well as you can be. Maybe you need something else..."

"What's your point?"

With that, the stranger stood up, held Juin's face firmly, and laid his lips on Juin's. Much to his own surprise, Juin found himself returning in kind.

The stranger's toungue was sure. As they probed past Juin's shocked and parted lips. Juin found himself biting lightly onto the intruding, but not unwelcome, visitor. He found his hands exploring the stranger. The soft skin under the already yielding mesh was warm to the touch, and was become sweaty, despite the frosty night air.

And most unexpectedly, Juin found himself getting aroused. At least, the physical accompaniments were there. The stranger's heaving chest showed that he was of like mind. They fell down, liplocked, into a pile of raked autumn leaves.

His hard tool unexplicably attentive, Juin found himself dry humping the stranger. They parted lips, and the stranger smiled at him. His deft hands quickly undid Juin's belt buckle, and pulled his leather pants down to his knees.

"I can see someone's excited..."

Juin's throbbing cock was leaking precum, his bikini briefs unbelievably tight on his 8 inch tool. He literally tore it off, the hard shaft bobbing free into the frigid night air, only to meet the elvish man's waiting mouth.

Not once in his 27 relationships had anyone been so good. Light licks, soulful sucking, and deep throat humming drove Juin mad on the edge. The sensation was mindblowing. And a good blowing the stranger was giving him too.

He let out a low moan, and let out a spurt all over the stranger's face. Seven strong shots he let loose, getting it all over himself and the barely dressed stranger. Absolutely spent from the most powerful orgasm in his life, Juin laid back in the leaves, his chest heaving.

The stranger got up, ran his fingers through his messed hair, and turned to walk away. He turned his head.

"I suppose you get the point."

Meh.